


#ad

by Kerfluffle



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Celebratory Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public drunkeness, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 19:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14960312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerfluffle/pseuds/Kerfluffle
Summary: #ByeTomsBeard





	#ad

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty irredeemable. Just my id’s response to the Caps’ public bender, Tom’s “acting,” and TJ’s fucking tweet.
> 
> Includes: players under the influence of alcohol, hand-wavy timelines, too many hats

“Look,” says TJ, scowling as he runs his hand down Tom’s arm. “I am proud of you for the brand deal or whatever - make that money, bro. It’s just...” TJ settles the same hand on the back of Tom’s neck and gives him a gentle squeeze. “Does it _have_ to go?”

 

There are about three inches of space between them when Tom laughs, almost close enough to brush their mouths together. Jesus, TJ can’t go thinking thoughts like that here, drunk in the middle of the day with half of Washington D.C. watching.

 

“It’s just a beard, Teej,” he says, combing his fingers through the thick hair reflexively, almost thoughtful. “I can grow it back anytime I want.”

 

“Brag more,” says TJ. He gives Tom a good shove. Tom, being Tom, barely moves. “It’s just a fine beard, y’know. A damn fine beard. You look like a fucking lumberjack, bro, and I like it a lot. Would be a damn shame.” TJ’s rambling now, so he takes a swig of his beer before he says something really stupid. “We have so many happy memories together.” Well, stupid _er_.

 

“I know,” says Tom generously, wrapping an arm around TJ’s shoulder and pulling him in for a bone-crushing hug. “Love you, bro.”

 

“Love you, man,” mumbles TJ, his face squashed against Tom’s ridiculous chest. “Fucking champions, man. We really fucking did it.”

 

“Fucking right,” agrees Tom, releasing TJ with a slap on the back. His hand lingers there, fingers curling around TJ’s shoulder and digging in. Jesus, his palms are wide. TJ needs a distraction, like now.

 

“Hey, O,” he shouts, waving both hands at Alex until he looks up from where he’s been holding court, the cup between his legs, his eyes soft and pleased. “You wanna go for a swim?” His wide toothless smile is answer enough.

 

They take a running start, because why not. TJ is feeling very proud of himself for ditching his sandals until he emerges from the fountain, euphoric and drenched, and remembers what wet jeans feel like against your skin.

 

“Jesus,” laughs Tom, giving him an appraising look. “Those aren’t gonna dry. You and Holts are so fucked. What are we even fucking doing?”

 

He presses another drink into TJ’s hand, and when TJ takes it he grabs Tom’s wrist, holding him still. “Don’t shave,” he whispers into Tom’s ear, stretching up on his toes. “Not yet.”

 

Tom looks at him like he’s crazy. “Okay, buddy,” he says, sounding amused. “Anything for you.”     

 

TJ beams at him. “Y’know what we really need?” Tom shakes his head. “A fucking tattoo.”

 

*

 

Much later, after TJ has texted the boys his killer idea, only to learn that many of them had the same killer idea, because they are fucking _brothers_ , and after more drinks and tattoos and a couple slices of lukewarm pizza, he eventually finds Tom again amongst the throng of revelers.

 

“Hi,” says TJ, wrapping an arm around Tom’s neck for support. “How’re you?”

 

Tom raises his eyebrows at him. “Fucking great, man,” he says. “We’re Stanley Cup Champions.”

 

TJ doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing it. “Hell yeah we are,” he agrees, drawing Tom closer until their bodies are pressed together at the hip. Feeling reckless, he pats Tom’s cheek. “Please don’t shave.”

 

TJ’s eyes start to scan the crowd for a familiar face or flash of silver, ready to fucking dance, when he feels Tom’s beard brush against his neck. He shivers despite himself. Maybe it was an accident, maybe Tom hasn’t figured it out yet, maybe...

 

“Why are you _actually_ obsessed with my beard?” asks Tom, nosing against TJ’s pulse point. To the casual observer, it would almost look like he was only trying to be heard over the roar of the crowd.

 

TJ wants to die.

 

“Um,” he says, face flaming even as he lets Tom back him up against the wall, one hand clinging to his bicep for support. “It’s just, y’know, good vibes, man.”

 

“Uh-huh,” says Tom, looking down at him, eyes dark. “Good vibes, sure. Definitely not because you want me to do this.” His hands frame TJ’s hips, pinning him in place. Suddenly he leans in, closer, closer, too close, and it’s all TJ can do to shut his eyes and let himself be kissed. This is happening. Cool. Maybe people won’t notice them in the dim lighting. Or maybe they’ll think it’s, like, team bonding. Or maybe... he moans, opening his mouth for Tom’s tongue. Tom’s beard scratches his face in the best possible way, leaves him panting and pink and wanting more as soon as they break apart for air.

 

“Look at you,” says Tom, a little wondrous. He touches his thumb to TJ’s bottom lip. “You get so red.”

 

TJ’s head spins as he takes Tom’s thumb into his mouth, buzzed and eager and hard in his jeans. “Yeah,” says Tom. He removes it with a _pop_ , fisting his hand in TJ’s shirt. “We really need to get you out of here.”

 

TJ, improbably, still has a beer in his hand. Can’t let that go to waste. He drains it in one go, bottle pressed to his lips, not breaking eye contact with Tom once. “Let’s dip,” he says, slamming it on the nearest table. “Where’s my hat?”

 

“Menace,” laughs Tom. He finds his hat on the floor. He’d knocked it off trying to tangle his fingers in TJ’s hair minutes earlier. “Here.”  

 

“Thanks, babe,” says TJ, easy as anything. “Lead the way.”

 

*

 

It’s a minor miracle that they make it out of the bar in one piece, given the amount of screaming and groping and general insanity. TJ sincerely hopes the cup is still having a good time. He has a vague recollection of kissing it goodnight. Now he’s in a taxi with _Tom Wilson_ , going back to Tom’s apartment all because TJ can’t keep his fucking mouth shut. Tom has one hand on TJ’s knee, scrolling through his messages and reading choice excerpts aloud.

 

“Oh my god,” he says, cackling. “Look at Vee.”

 

It is, objectively, hilarious. Except TJ has been patiently ignoring the ache in his jeans for what feels like hours and Tom keeps _touching_ him and if they don’t get out of this cab _right now_ TJ is going to crawl into Tom’s lap and he will _not_ be held responsible for what the cabbie sees in his rearview.

 

“Here okay?” asks the cabbie in the nick of time.

 

TJ slaps a hundred dollar bill in his hand. “You rock, man,” he says. “Have a great night.” He jogs to catch up with Tom, bouncing on the balls of his feet in the elevator, eyes darting from the ceiling to the buttons to the floor until Tom puts a settling hand on the nape of his neck.

 

“Only you could get coked-out on Bud Light,” Tom mutters, but there’s no heat behind the words.

 

TJ grabs for Tom the second the apartment door shuts, lifting one leg and wrapping it around his waist. He feels like he’s burning, like he wants to Tom to consume him, but this is a good start. Something sharp digs into TJ’s shoulder. He doesn’t care, just encourages Tom to press him against the door more firmly. “Hey, Tommy,” he says, conversational. “Y’gonna kiss me again?”     

 

Tom looks back at him, slack-jawed, too handsome for his own good. He has a sweat stain on the front of his tee - or is it beer? TJ doesn’t have enough time to puzzle it out, because Tom licks his lips and opens his mouth. “Yeah, Teej,” he says. He moves his hand from TJ’s hip to his ass, hauls him up until he’s barely touching the floor. “Gonna kiss you now.” He seals their mouths together, deepening it right away and not letting up until he’s got TJ making these embarrassing whimpery sounds in the back of his throat.

 

“Fuck me,” says TJ, tilting his head to allow Tom better access to the side of his neck. His hat falls to the floor again, and neither of them makes any move to retrieve it. “Yeah, give me a fucking souvenir.” He knows his skin is sensitive, prone to marks and easy bruising, and he is positive that Tom’s beard will leave it rubbed raw. It’s so hot to consider that his dick twitches in the confines of his jeans. Why the fuck did he think they were a good choice for today?   

 

“Mmm,” says Tom, infuriatingly gentle as he kisses the hinge of his jaw. “Will Lauren mind?”

 

TJ appreciates that he’s being, like, a gentleman or whatever, but he would appreciate it a lot more if Tom got a hand in his pants. Even in a euphoric drunk-lust haze, TJ recognizes that his answer here is important, so he pulls himself together. “No,” he says, flashing his best All-American smile. “She said I can have anything I want, so long as I’m home by 6.” He grabs Tom’s hair, giving it a tug just to annoy him. “And I want.”

 

Tom rolls his eyes. It’s a stark contrast to the way his erection is pressing heavy and insistent against TJ’s hip. “Lucky me,” he says, voice too rough to really sound sarcastic. When TJ exposes the pale column of his throat again he leans in, sucking a mark into the thin skin and rubbing his beard everywhere.

 

“Okay, okay,” pants TJ, pushing Tom away by his face and laughing when Tom licks him. “If you don’t get me naked I am going to die here.”

 

“Can’t have that,” says Tom, surprisingly biddable as he herds TJ into his bedroom with one hand low on his back. “Ditch the Birks.” He starts with TJ’s t-shirt, dropping to his knees to unzip his jeans and peel him out of his underwear. TJ’s cock is as red as his mouth, and he hisses when Tom brings it to his lips, just for a moment, before pulling back.

 

“Tease,” accuses TJ.

 

“Quit whining and get on the bed,” says Tom. TJ is happy to do as told. He knows he looks good like this, naked with his legs spread out on top of the sheets. Tom stares at him, not moving, for long enough that TJ starts to squirm.

 

“Willy?” he asks. Tom shushes him, disappearing into his closet. He re-emerges fully undressed, a Stanley Cup Champs hat clutched in his hands.

 

“There,” Tom says, setting it backwards on TJ’s head and stepping away to admire his work. Smug and insufferable is, unfortunately, a good look for him. “Now we can fuck.”

 

“Sweet talker,” purrs TJ, lifting his hands to pull him in. “I bet you say that to all the Cup Champions.”

 

“I’m begging you to shut up,” laughs Tom. He settles between TJ’s thighs, gets one big hand on each and gives them a measured squeeze. “Think my beard could mark these up too?”  

 

“Nngh,” says TJ, flopping against the pillows and biting his lip. “Why don’t we find out.”

 

Tom starts with his belly, sucking a trail of kisses to the jut of his hip. He has the nerve to bypass TJ’s cock in its entirety, instead biting the inside of one thigh hard enough to make him shout and thrash against the mattress. It stings too good. TJ probably likes more pain mixed with his pleasure than most, and Tom is aware. They haven’t done anything like this in a while, maybe in over a year, but he seems to remember all of TJ’s fucking triggers regardless. It’s too good.

 

“Oh my god,” groans TJ, twisting from side to side until Tom pins his hips to the bed, continuing to mark and scratch the soft interior of his other leg. “Please, please, if you want anything else you need to stop.”

 

“You could come like this?” asks Tom. He sounds a bit awed at the prospect.   

 

“Think so,” pants TJ. “Let’s not find out tonight.”

 

Tom grins from the vee of his legs, gives him a good slap on the top of his right thigh and grins wider when TJ moans. “You’re such a freak.” He soothes the reddened skin with his hand, watching the rapid rise and fall of TJ’s chest. “It’s your night, buddy. What do you want?”

 

“I think,” TJ licks his lips again, his desperation to come at war with his desire to drag this out, make it good. “Will you fuck me?”

 

Tom snorts. “Sounds like a real hardship.”

 

“That’s not the only thing that’s hard,” quips TJ, because someone has to. He probably deserves it when Tom slaps him again. “Where’s your lube?”

 

“I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” says Tom. He rolls off TJ long enough to rummage through his bedside drawer, returning with both lube and a condom.  

 

“Kinda surprised you don’t have whisky dick,” remarks TJ, watching Tom dribble a line down his finger. “It actually looks bigger than I remember.”

 

“Than you remember, huh,” huffs Tom. “Let’s see how you remember this.”

 

TJ smiles. It’s so, so easy to wind him up. He bends his knees, breathing into the sensation of Tom’s finger pressing against him, stretching him from the inside. TJ has to kick Tom to get him to go for two, mumbling encouragement and profanity and whatever else comes out of his mouth. They won the fucking Stanley Cup. Anything goes. “Yeah, babe,” he says when Tom has him stuffed full on three fingers, moving them in short bursts. “Fuck me already. I’m fucking ready, man.”     

 

“If you’re sure,” says Tom, ever considerate. Then he wipes his lube-sticky fingers along TJ’s stomach, and TJ glares at him. “Hey, flip over.” Tom wants him on all fours, wants to see the words on TJ’s hat as he drives into him from behind, and TJ is more than happy to oblige.

 

“Fuuuck,” moans TJ, falling to his forearms when Tom starts to really give it to him. His hips slap against TJ’s ass, pace fast and brutal and exactly what TJ needs. Then Tom gets a hand between TJ’s shoulder blades, pressing him into the mattress as he changes his angle and - Jesus - TJ is fucking done for.

 

“Gonna come,” he says, reaching blindly to stroke himself. Tom grabs his hand instead and pins it to the small of TJ’s back.

 

“Could you come like _this?_ ” he asks, a mean echo of earlier, giving TJ a particularly deep thrust.

 

“Mmm maybe,” whines TJ, his hand flexing uselessly in Tom’s grip. “Tommy, please.”

 

Tom finally acquiesces, wraps his palm around TJ’s dick and starts to jerk him off. It doesn’t take long, a few strokes at best, before TJ is coming all over Tom’s sheets. TJ feels Tom go still inside him, waiting for his marching orders. He sighs. “You can finish,” he says, pillowing his head on his outstretched arms and spreading his legs wider. “I’m good for it.”

 

“You’re something else,” mutters Tom. He kisses the back of TJ’s neck before he starts rutting against him again, short and a bit slower than before now that he’s focused on his own pleasure.

 

“Yeah, that’s it baby,” babbles TJ. He feels wrung out and floaty and fucking spent, his whole body crying _too much_ as Tom finally groans and comes, spilling into the condom.

 

“Shit,” Tom says, draping himself on top of TJ in a sweaty, fucked-out heap. “You are fucking incredible.”

 

“Same to you, bro,” says TJ, muffled. “But you’re suffocating me.”        

 

“Sorry.” Tom hauls himself upright, pulling out of TJ with a hiss before tying the condom off and dropping it in his bathroom trashcan. TJ can hear him run a cloth under the tap, returning on wobbly legs. “Jesus,” he says, getting a good look as he wipes TJ down. TJ is not ready to open his eyes just yet. “I kind of did a number on you.”

 

“Good,” says TJ, smiling. “I would have been disappointed if you didn’t. Now spoon me, asshole.”

 

“Six isn’t so far away,” Tom cautions, dutifully pulling TJ against his chest. TJ settles in, grabbing for one of Tom’s arms and bringing it around his waist.

 

“I know,” TJ says. “Just for a minute, okay? Then I’ll be out of your hair. Let me have a little afterglow.”   

 

Tom snorts against his neck. “Y’know, if you liked my beard so much, you could have just said something.”

 

TJ smiles his best Stanley-Cup-Winning smile. “Where’s the fucking fun in that?”

 

“Asshole,” breathes Tom.

 

 *

 

They lie in companionable silence, both half asleep, until TJ carefully extricates himself from Tom’s grip. “G’night,” he whispers, grabbing for his underwear, then jeans.

 

“Night, Champ,” mumbles Tom, who sounds more than half asleep. “Can I shave my beard now?”

  
TJ just laughs, tugging his gross, likely unsalvageable shirt over his head. Still better than trying to go home topless. “We can discuss _that_ tomorrow,” he says, and slinks quietly from the room the best he can in fucking Birkenstocks.


End file.
